pletely ‘no good’—I couldn’t do anything but moan and cry—oh, how ashamed I am when I think of it; and yet what could I do—we had tried everything we knew—and then all at once I heard Mary Vance saying loudly behind me,
“‘Why, that child is dying!’
“I whirled around. Didn't I know he was dying—my little Jims! I could have thrown Mary Vance out of the door or the window—anywhere—at that moment. There she stood, cool and composed, looking down at my baby, with those weird white eyes of hers, as she might look at a choking kitten. I had always disliked Mary Vance—and just then I hated her.
“‘We have tried everything,’ said poor Susan dully. ‘It is not ordinary croup.’
“‘No, it’s the dipthery croup,’ said Mary briskly, snatching up an apron. ‘And there’s mighty little time to lose—but I know what to do. When I lived over-harbour with Mrs. Wiley years ago Will Crawford's kid died of dipthery croup, in spite of two doctors. And when old Aunt Christina MacAllister heard of it.—she was the one brought me round when I died of pneumonia you know—she was a wonder—no doctor was a patch on her—they don’t hatch her breed of cats nowadays, let me tell you—she said she could have saved him with her grandmother’s remedy if ‘she’d been there. She told Mrs. Wiley what it was and I’ve never forgot it. I’ve the greatest memory ever—a thing just lies in the back of my head till the time comes to use it. Got any sulphur in the house, Susan?’
